


put 'em together and what have you got?

by yodasyoyo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Deputy Stiles Stilinski, Derek Deserves Nice Things, Domestic, Fairy Godparents, Fluff, Housemates, Kittens, M/M, Matchmaking, Nifflers, Obliviousness, Pining, Roommates, Wishes, idek what to tag to be honest, this fic is random af
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-18 19:59:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11881740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yodasyoyo/pseuds/yodasyoyo
Summary: “Oh, bibbidi bobbidi fuck you.”Unsurprisingly, Stiles' fairy godmother is a menace.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my contribution to the Cops and Crooks prompt for the Sterek Writing Room. I'm not sure it's quite deputy!Stiles enough to really count, but I did my best and this is the way it turned out. Title taken from Bibbidi Bobbidi Boo. You know, the song, From Cinderella.

Sunshine filters through a gap in the thick velvet curtains, illuminating dust motes in the air; the room smells strongly of lavender and cloves, it’s all Stiles can do not sneeze. The stiff starched collar of his new shirt is irritating him and he tugs fitfully at it. The deputy uniform is okay, he likes it well enough, but every now and then he has to break in a new shirt and that is the worst.

“Mrs Henderson?” he calls, “Are you okay?”

“Oh, I’m just fine, dear,” comes a voice from the kitchen. “Take a seat and I’ll be with you in a minute.”

The couch is wrapped in plastic, it squeaks as he sits down on it. Opposite him is a china cabinet filled with a multitude of ceramic frogs, they’re sitting on lily-pads, fishing, riding bicycles, ice-skating, all grinning out at him wide-mouths and fixed eyes. Bunches of herbs hang along the far wall and above the television hangs a huge framed photograph of Bob Barker.

“Now I made you chamomile, Deputy, it’s calming,” Mrs Henderson says as she stumps back in; full-to-the-brim tea-cups and a plate of cookies rattle ominously on the tray she carries in her hands.

“Thanks,” Stiles says sincerely, he goes to stand. “Can I help--”

“No, dear, I’m fine.” She places the tray on a coffee table, and he swears he can hear her joints creak as she sits down in a high backed armchair across for him. “This is just my way of thanking you for getting that raccoon out from under the deck--”

“Pshaw,” Stiles says ducking his head, “That was no problem.” It had taken two hours, and despite being gentle and patient and doing everything the internet had told him too, he still somehow managed to get scratched. Still, it had been a change of pace. Beacon Hills has really settled in the last few years, Scott has a handle on being Alpha, the pack is growing, hardly anything seems to happen anymore. The Sheriff’s department is quiet, and Stiles’ epic battle with the raccoon is, legitimately, the most action he’s seen in weeks.

Mrs Henderson smiles, bright brown eyes sparkling good-humoredly, her face wrinkled as a walnut. “You’re so smart,” she says, “I didn’t even realize it was a raccoon when I called you, I thought it was an intruder!”

“It’s fine, honestly!” Stiles says, rubbing at the red welts on his arm with a rueful grin.

“Look at that smile,” she says, “Gorgeous. You must have all the girls and guys after you.”

“Uh--” he can feel a blush creeping up his face. After all, it isn’t as if he struggles to hook up with people, but it isn’t like he has that special someone in his life either. “Not exactly?” he tries.

“No? I don't believe it!"

"I'm--" he hesitates, "not exactly lucky in love, well, in anything really."

"Well, we'll have to fix that, won't we?” she says, a mischievous gleam in her eye. “Kiddo, I’m your fairy godmother, I'll grant you three wishes, the whole shebang, whaddya say?”

“I say yes,” Stiles laughs easily, leaning back into the couch so the plastic squeaks. “To start with I’ll have a million bucks and my own private island, thanks.”

She grins and offers him a cookie. It's stale.

-

“You’re late,” grumps Derek later that evening. He’s sitting in his favorite armchair in the loft that they share, a book open in front of him. He wears reading glasses now, and they’re sliding down his nose, his hair tousled like he’s been running his hands through it.

“Yeah, well--” Stiles slings his keys at the bowl they keep on the side table by the front door; he misses and they clatter to the floor. He stares at them betrayed, then shrugs; he’s can't be bothered to pick them up and it isn't as if they’re going anywhere. “Why?” He turns to Derek, “Did we have plans?”

Derek’s brow crumples in a frown. “No,” he bites glaring back down at his book, and Stiles sighs. It’s been eighteen months since he arrived back in Beacon Hills after college. Seventeen months since he decided that he was, in fact, too old to live with his dad, especially when said dad had just married Stiles’ best friend’s mom.

It wasn’t as if he was unhappy for them, he and Scott were both over the moon, but living with the love birds, well, that was a little more than he could handle. There had been canoodling. Twice he’d walked in to find them on the couch in-- well-- he’s happy for them, he’ll leave it at that, but there are some things he cannot _unsee_.

Anyway, seventeen months ago he’d complained vociferously about that fact at a pack meeting and Derek had approached him after, shuffled foot to foot, hands jammed deep in his pockets. He'd hemmed and hawed and then grudgingly admitted to having a spare bedroom. Stiles had leapt at the chance. It should have been great, two single guys living together in a bachelor pad come pack house type thing. It should have been _awesome_. After all, they’re friends, sort of, or at least, they care about each other in that 'your pack and I don’t want you to die' kind of way. Besides, they both have a similar sense of humor. On paper it should be perfect.

Yet, somehow, it isn’t.

They’ve lived together for a while now, and in moments like these, Stiles still feels like he’s missing something. That there’s some part of Derek that is closed off, impossible to reach. A lingering feeling that on some fundamental level, Stiles is disappointing him, and he doesn’t know why.

“Scott called,” Derek says, breaking Stiles out of his reverie. “He says a bunch of the pack are going clubbing tonight.”

“Oh, god,” Stiles mumbles. “It’s Friday, isn’t it?”

“Yup.”

“I’m on an early shift tomorrow. Six AM, Derek. _Six_.”

“That’s what I told him,” Derek replies, still not looking up from his book. Stiles wanders through to the kitchen, absently scratching at the still-red welts on his arm, and opens the refrigerator to find Derek has neatly placed their left over pizza from last night in a tupperware container, like a psychopath. Clutching the box to his chest, Stiles prises the lid open. Three slices of cold meat lovers and a gatorade and maybe he’ll be okay to join the rest of the pack for drinks. One drink. Maybe. “Are you coming too?” he calls, leaning against the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. Derek huffs through his nose and flips a page.

“No,” he says shortly.

“You should, you know,” Stiles says, chewing on a rubbery slice of pepperoni. “I’ll totally be your wingman. Not that you need it.” In all the years Stiles has known Derek, he’s never been anything other than painfully good looking. Even the reading glasses give him a kind of intellectual-lumberjack, Clark Kent vibe. Ugh. He could probably walk into any bar or club in the city and walk out again immediately with whoever he wanted.

“I have work tomorrow,” Derek says. Work. Stiles wants to roll his eyes, but he tamps the impulse down. The truth is, Derek volunteers at the local senior center twice a week. He plays mahjong with old ladies who fuss him and offer him tacky mints and butterscotch candy from the darkened recesses of their respective purses. From what Stiles can gather, Derek’s insanely popular with the elderly women of Beacon Hills, which is kinda sweet, but, well, it can hardly be called _work_. It isn’t like he’s ever had to wrangle a raccoon out from under a deck.

“Okay, dude.” Stiles says as he crams another slice of pizza into his mouth. “Well, I’m gonna go hang with the guys, don’t wait up, okay?”

Derek’s shoulders seem to hunch as he stares down at the book, but he nods his agreement, and Stiles sighs again, more deeply.

Yup. He’s definitely missing something. “Are you _sure_ you’re okay?” he says, pausing at the bottom of the stairs.

“I’m fine,” Derek says, flipping a page forcefully.

“Yeah,” mumbles Stiles under his breath as he plods up the steps. “I’m really getting that.”

Everyone in his life is settled now, Stiles loves his job, his dad is happily remarried, Beacon Hills is safe, Scott and Kira are living together, Lydia’s off at MIT saving the world one equation at a time, the pack is strong and stable. The only person in Stiles life who seems downright unhappy is Derek, and it bugs him, okay? It’s like Stiles’ life is a jigsaw puzzle and one of the pieces just refuses to fit, no matter which way he turns it. As he opens the door to his bedroom, he mutters, “I wish I understood you, dude.”

Somewhere in the distance wind chimes jingle merrily, he doesn’t give it any thought.

-

“Do you think Derek is happy?” Stiles asks Scott later that evening as they sit around a table at the Jungle. Stiles is wearing his best skinny jeans and his too-small Grateful Dead t-shirt; he’s already nursing his second beer. Maybe he should be looking to get laid, but all he can think about is the grumpy guy waiting at home.

“Derek?” Scott blinks at him. “He seems fine.”

“Really?”

“Wait, do you think he’s _un_ happy?” Scott’s face crinkles in concern, and Stiles can tell he’s about two seconds away from marching them both back to Stiles’ place to make Derek talk about his feelings. “What did you do?”

“What did _I_ do?” Stiles gapes at him. “Nothing! I even invited his grumpiliciousness out tonight! I said I would be his wingman!”

“Stiles!” Scott’s voice sounds disapproving. “Dude, not cool!”

“But--”

Scott shakes his head at him, frowning and Stiles is done. Ever since he moved in with Derek the whole pack has seemed vaguely disapproving and he is done trying to work out why. “I need another drink,” he says, head hitting the tacky beer-stained table, “but I can’t, because I have worrrrrk tomorrow.”

Scott doesn’t reply, already distracted by Kira who just arrived back with a trayful of shots and a ziploc baggy full of a familiar strain of wolfsbane. “Heads up boys,” she says, “things are about to get interesting!”

Stiles needs to leave now, or he’s never going to make it to work on time. He says his goodbyes and wrangles an uber to drive him home.

When he gets back to the apartment the tupperware box has been washed and put away and the door to Derek’s bedroom is shut tight.

-

“I just can’t get my sweet little Greebo down out of that tree,” she says, voice quavering, “Could you?”

“I’ll be right over, Mrs Henderson.” She’s a sweet lady, but somehow she got hold of his direct line at work, and it’s turned her into a menace.

“I knew I could count on you.”

It turns out sweet little Greebo is an enormous angry grey ball of hissing fangs and fury who has absolutely no intention of being rescued at all. Stiles ends ups scratched and bitten to ribbons and manages to twist his ankle slightly in his hurry to get out of the tree and escape. To add insult to injury, Greebo then jumps down anyway. Mrs Henderson coos over her vicious hellspawn like he is not, in fact, the anti-christ, and then plies Stiles with rose flavored lemonade, which he drinks despite the fact that he will never understand why anyone would want to drink anything that tastes the way flowers _smell_. He swallows it down, wincing, and then she offers him a stale cookie.

“You’re such a kind hearted young man,” she says. Which is legitimately the first time anyone has ever said that to Stiles with anything approaching sincerity and he's totally gonna chalk it up as a win. He takes a bite of the cookie and she continues, “By the way, I’m going to help you with that boy you like.”

Crumbs spraying everywhere as he chokes on crumbly oatmeal and chocolate chips. “B-Boy?”

“Yes,” she smiles at him. “The boy, the one you like.”

“I don’t--” he looks around himself, checking he hasn’t fallen into an alternate dimension. He eyes his rose scented lemonade with deep suspicion. Maybe he’s been drugged and missed half the conversation. “What boy?”

“The one you like, the one you don’t understand.”

It takes him a moment to catch on. “Derek?” he squeaks manfully. “I, hah! I don’t like Derek. That’s-- I just want to understand him better because I feel like he’s sad.” And complicated. And that somehow Stiles' existence seems to be making it worse. “I don’t like him though!”

“If you don’t like him, why does it bother you whether or not you understand him? Why do you care if he’s sad?”

“Okay,” he raises his hands, “I like him as a friend.”

“So you’ve never once thought about his ass.”

“Oh my god.” he splutters blushing furiously. “What is this conversation? How do you even know about Derek?”

“I told you,” she says smiling sweetly, “I’m your fairy godmother.”

He stares at her. “Har har. But seriously.”

“I’m always serious, sweetie. Do you want some candy?” She rifles in the drawer of the side table next to her and produces a bag of hard candy and Stiles reaches out to take one without thinking and then pauses, hand hovering over the bag. She doesn’t look evil or delusional, she’s sitting there smiling, wrinkled face perfectly serene. Fairy Godmothers aren’t a thing. Are they? Are they? _Oh god._

“Am I going to die?” he asks.

“Of course. Eventually. We all are. But I’m not going to kill you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m your fairy godmother.”

“Riight,” he pulls his hand back from the bag of candy without touching them and gets to his feet, limping backwards a step. “And why do I have a fairy godmother exactly?”

“Oh, you’re just lucky I guess,” she twinkles at him, then takes one of her own candies, painstakingly unwraps it, and pops it in her mouth.

Stiles is a lot of things, but lucky isn’t one of them, not really. Sure, you could try and make the argument that he’s lucky. He’s still alive. His dad is still alive. Things are certainly better than they were. But there are definitely people who have had easier lives than him. “So, where were you a while back when I was being possessed by a Japanese fox demon.”

“Bermuda,” she says, “You’re not my only godchild you know.”

“Riiiighht. Okaaay. Well, this has been super fun and all,” he sticks up two thumbs and starts hobbling backwards towards the door. “But I don’t think I need any godmothering. So I’m gonna say thanks, but no thanks. Okay?”

“Oh, it’s too late for that dear. You already accepted and you made your first wish.”

“My-My first wish?”

“Yes.” She nods.

“So where are they then?”

“What do you mean?”

“The private island. The million bucks. Where are they, huh?”

“That isn’t what you wished for,” she says with maddening patience.

“But I-”

“No. Your first wish was, now let me see--” she clicks her fingers and a piece of paper appears in thin air. Then she fumbles for a fine silver chain round her neck, it's attached to a delicate pair of pince-nez glasses which she places on her nose. Clearing her throat she says, “Ah, yes, here we are. ‘I wish I understood you better, dude.’ Vis-à-vis one Derek Hale.”

“That--That was a private conversation!” Stiles hisses, gesticulating wildly. “That I was having privately, with _myself_.”

“No such thing at the moment, I’m afraid.”

“But! But--" His hands drop to his sides. "Oh Fuck!” he mutters.

“Now, Mieczyslaw,” She says, staring at him severely over the rim of her glasses. “Your swearing offends me.”

“Uh.” He winces. “Sorry. I won’t-”

“No, no. I mean, swearing is fine, but you’re mumbling. If you’re going to swear enunciate properly. Listen to me: Fuck. Now you say it.”

“Ummmm. Fuck?”

“No. Listen. Fuck.” She waves a hand at him, as if to say, and you?

Looking around himself, mainly to check if there are hidden cameras, he clears his throat and then mutters, “Fuck?”

“Fuck. Fuck. Really _feel_  the word. Let me hear the passion. Say it with me now. Fuck!”

“Fuck.”

“Fuck.”

“Fuck. Like that?”

“No. Listen. Fuck. You see?”

“Fuck!”

“Almost. But try again, you can really hear the ‘ck’ sound when I say it. It makes it much more powerful.”

He blinks at her. “I don’t know what to do with this conversation.”

She sighs, watching him from her armchair, small and birdlike. “Fine,” she says, “well you have three wishes total. You’ve already wished for one thing, think carefully about how you want to spend the remaining two.”

“Can I wish for more wishes?”

“Fuck no,” she says, and he huffs out a startled bark of laughter. “No wishing for more wishes. No making people fall in love with you. No killing anyone or bringing anyone back from the dead. Nothing like that, I’m afraid. Also, to be clear, you have to really want what you’re wishing for in order for it to work.”

“Right,” he says, blinking at her, bemused.

“Now, drink your lemonade, dear,” she says, as Greebo jumps up on her lap and begins purring like a freight train. “And try to close your mouth when you eat. There’s a good boy.”

It isn’t until he’s driving home that afternoon that he realizes, what her words imply: That somewhere, deep down inside himself he must really, really, want to understand Derek Hale.

-

The more he thinks on it though, the more worried he becomes. He’s accidentally involved Derek in a wish, a magical wish to understand him better. How is that going to manifest itself? Will he walk through the door only to have Derek pounce on him, unable to prevent himself spilling his deepest darkest secrets? The thought makes Stiles feel sick to his stomach.

He crawls up the stairs to the loft at a snail’s pace, only to find Derek standing in the doorway to their apartment waiting for him, eyebrows one thick line across his forehead. “What’s wrong?” he grits out. “I could hear your heartbeat a mile away.”

“Heeey, Derek. How are you? Okay?”

“Fine.”

Stiles heaves a sigh of relief. There’s the terse, stoic bastard he knows and loves. “So, not overwhelmed with the urge to reveal your deepest darkest secrets then?”

“Should I be?”

“Nope. No. Definitely not.”

“What’s going on, Stiles?”

“Nothing! How was work?”

Derek glares at him for a long moment, before finally gritting out, “Good.”

“Excellent! That’s what I like to hear. Hey, I haven’t had lunch yet, so I’m gonna fix myself something, you wanna join me?” He edges past Derek in through the front door and shrugs off his jacket, hanging it up, before tugging nervously at his itchy collar. Derek turns to watch him.

“Just tell me what’s wrong, Stiles.”

“Nothing! Nothing’s wrong. I just. I just need to change out of my uniform and then I’ll be right back.” He slides past Derek and then scrambles up the staircase, into his room and slams the door shut behind him. He stands there for a long moment, breathing heavily. Then running to his desk, he switches his laptop on, plugs his speakers in and fires up Spotify, finds the loudest music he can, so he has a little privacy from prying werewolf ears. Then he calls Scott.

“Stiles?”

“Scotty-boy. My main man. My buddy. My best pal.”

“Oh my god. What happened?”

“Nothing! Why would you even think that?”

“Is that Throwdown playing in the background? I didn’t think you liked Throwdown.”

“I don’t--I-- look, Scott. You have to help me!”

“Oh my god. I knew it! What did you do?”

“Nothing,” Stiles whines. “Well, not on purpose! This is totally not my fault.”

“Stiles--”

“Fine,” Stiles says, grumpily, and the whole sorry story comes tumbling out.

“She likes frogs?” Scott says, when Stiles finally stutters to a stop.

“That? That’s what you’re taking from this?” Stiles sputters, outraged. “I may have inadvertently cursed Derek, and you’re worried about frogs?”

“I don’t think you have cursed him,” Scott says. “You said yourself, he seemed normal when you spoke to him.”

“He’s going to kill me,” Stiles moans. “When he finds out I’m totally gonna be dead.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is. He’s gonna murder me, or at the very least, rough me up a little. He’ll probably ask me to move out and then I’ll have to move back in with our parents. Our _parents,_ Scott. The last time I lived with them I saw things. I saw--”

“Don’t want to know.” Scott cuts in, hurriedly. “Look,” he says, changing the subject, “He isn’t gonna hurt you and he would never ask you to move out. Not in a million years. This is Derek.”

“Exactly,” says Stiles. “It’s _Derek_.” Although it’s clear to him that that means something different to Scott than it does to him.

“Why would you wish that anyway?” Scott asks.

“Okay, first off, I didn’t know that actual wishing was an option when I made the wish. I hadn’t read the terms and conditions, so I cannot be blamed.”

“Yeah, but you still wished it. And wished it hard enough that it actually counts as one of your wishes, so…”

“Derek’s just--” Stiles sighs, all the fight going out of him. “He’s just so Dereky you know? Like a mystery, wrapped in an enigma and covered in muscles and brooding. Do any of us understand him, really?”

“I don’t know,” says Scott, and Stiles can practically hear the shrug in his voice. “I feel like I understand him pretty well. He’s a pretty chill guy... now.”

“Hah! Okay, but then last night, when I volunteered to wingman for him. He acted like I’d kicked his puppy.”

“Yeah, but, I mean-- that’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“It is?”

“Yeah, I mean. You know--” he trails off, leaving a significant pause. One of these days Scott is going to finish a sentence, and on that glorious day Stiles is going to burst into fucking song.

“No! I don’t know! That’s just the point! Maybe it’s different for you and Kira and the rest of the pack, but it feels like all I do is annoy him, y’know? Like he’s permanently in a bad mood whenever I’m around. Like I'm a one-man cloud raining on the Derek parade. You don't get it! You don't have to live with him! Sometimes I just wish the dude would have a good day, one good day and then maybe it would chill him out around _me_.” There’s a sound in the distance like the tinkle of wind chimes and Stiles’ mouth snaps shut.

Sucking in a breath, Scott whispers, “Bro, did you just...”

Horrified, Stiles shuts his eyes, because yes, yes, he did.

-


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! I intended this chapter to be 3k, people, and it turned how to be 7k+. (actually I was kind of a litttttle bit tipsy when I posted the first chapter, i never actually intended for this to be a 2 chapter fic at all, but the less said about that the better.) Anyway. Thank-you for all the lovely comments on the previous chapter. I'm so happy you're enjoying this story and I hope you like this chapter just as much!

Stiles doesn’t have a panic attack when Scott finally hangs up, but it’s a close run thing. Turning the music down he sits on his bed, head in his hands, and tries to make sense of the last twenty four hours.

What is happening here? Fairy Godmothers? Wishes? It’s ridiculous. Geeze, what would Derek having a good day even look like? Is it physically possible? Or has Stiles just created some kind of space-time continuum destroying paradox? Is the universe going to start collapsing in on itself because Stiles wished an impossible wish?

Hand on heart, he knows he’s being kind of an asshole now, but he’s also legitimately _freaking out._ His ankle is still sore after dealing with his _fairy godmother’s_ hellcat this morning, and there’s the fact that he gets three wishes, two of which he’s spent on Derek _freaking_ Hale. He could have been a private island owning billionaire by now! He could have wished for an end to war! Nuclear disarmament! A lifetime supply of Fritos! So many wasted opportunities.

Right now, all he knows for sure is if he stays here, he’s going to say something he regrets to Derek. So grabbing a duffel bag from his closet, he stuffs a selection of random clothes into it, throws his window open and hobbles down the fire escape as sneakily as he can. It isn’t his proudest moment.

Kira doesn’t seem entirely surprised to see him, when she opens the door to the tiny duplex she shares with Scott. “Come in, Cinderella!” she says, with a wink and a grin.

“Oh, bibbidi bobbidi fuck you.”

She laughs and waves him through to their bright yellow  living room, with it’s enormous flat screen TV that dominates the space and the B Movie posters stuck to the walls. “Scott just went by the store to pick up chips, dip and beer, he figured you’d be round.”

“Thank god,” Stiles huffs, flopping down on their couch. “Scotty is a prince among men.”

“Eh,” Kira shrugs and sits down next to him, knocking their knees together. “I mean, if he were actual _royalty_ he’d probably remember to leave the seat down occasionally.”

“Well--”

“And maybe aim for the bowl? I mean it’s a pretty big target. You’re a guy, how difficult is it really?”

Stiles waves a hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah, I hear you. He’s a wolf though, maybe he’s marking his territory or something. I don’t know. I feel like we’re getting distracted from the big picture here!”

“You mean how your heart’s desire is for Derek to have a good day?”

Eyes narrowing, Stiles glares at her. “Scott told you about that, huh?”

She laughs. “Yeah. I think it’s cute.”

“Cute? Cute!” he spits, “Well, will you still think that when Derek’s ripped my throat out with his teeth and dumped my body in the preserve?”

“He would never do that. Do you know him at _all_?”

“Do _you_ ? He would totally do that.” Okay, maybe that isn’t true, but he’s feeling _stressed._

Kira shakes her head. “He’s my best friend. He’s Scott’s second. You live with him. He’s like freaking Obi-Wan to the newer pack members. He isn’t going to kill you.” Okay, maybe Kira isn’t the _best_ person to be having this conversation with.

“You haven’t seen the way he looks at me.”

Rolling her eyes, she sighs. “Oh Stiles, I really _have_.” She places a hand on his arm. “Talk to him. Tell him what happened.”

“Nuh-uh.” He shakes his head. “No. Nope. Non. Nie.”

“Stiles--”

“I wished that I understood him better! After I made that first wish, I half expected to walk through the door and have him tell me all his deepest darkest secrets!”

“But he didn’t, right?”

“He still might!”

“I don’t think so. Think about that wish for a minute. Think about the wording. The wish is about _you_ not _him._ You want to understand him better. So maybe _you_ are the one the wish affects.”

Stiles opens his mouth and then shuts him again. “Huh,” he says, eventually, “I hadn’t thought about it like that.”

“And the second wish was what? That he’d have a good day? Stiles, how could he be angry about that? That’s a sweet wish.”

There’s a splotchy blush spreading up Stiles’ chest, creeping onto his cheeks, he can _feel_ it. “I--I wouldn’t call it sweet.”

“I would,” she says firmly. “Scott’ll be back any second. Move over while I fire up the X-box. I’m gonna kick both your asses at Halo.”

 

-

 

The three of them have been playing Halo for hours when Scott finally gets up from the nest they’ve made on the couch, turns the lights on, and tugs the curtains shut a little. They’re surrounded by empty cans and pizza boxes and, through a gap in the curtain, Stiles can see that street lights have begun to flicker on, and the sun is sinking low on the horizon. Checking his phone, he realizes he has three missed calls from Derek and a tersely worded, _Where are you?_ text which he stares at guiltily. He should probably have at least messaged Derek and let him know where he was, but by the time Scott had arrived back with snacks and alcohol, he’d been distracted by their impromptu Halo tournament.

Besides, Kira’s right, he wished for Derek to have a good day, so he’s probably fine. The truth is, pained as Stiles is to admit it, Derek’s more likely to have a good day without him around. Whatever the rest of the pack say, however chill Derek might be with _them,_ when Stiles is there he gets this pinched look on his face, shoulders hunched in, eyebrows bunched together like it _hurts_ just to look at him. And don’t get him started on the way they bicker. If living with Derek has proved anything, it’s that they’re too different. Stiles is messy, Derek’s a neat freak. Stiles is a night owl, Derek’s an early bird. Stiles blurts out whatever’s on his mind, Derek is the werewolf equivalent of Fort Knox, every thought and feeling carefully guarded.

“You should go home,” Scott says gently, nudging their shoulders together as Stiles stares glumly down at his phone. “Whatever’s going through your head right now, I promise you, it isn’t gonna be as bad as you think.”

“So you say.”

“I do say,” Scott says, leaning down to pick up Stiles’ duffle bag from the spot on the floor where he’d unceremoniously dumped it earlier. “So quit hiding and go home. Talk to Derek. If things go badly, _then_ come back and squirrel yourself away here, okay?”

Sighing loudly, Stiles curls his fingers round the strap of his bag, he hefts it over one shoulder as he stands to his feet. “Fine,” he huffs, “When did you get so wise, eh?”

“Well,” Scott says blandly. “I’m the Alpha.”

“Dick,” says Stiles, and kicks him in the shin with his bad foot.

Scott’s still laughing at him as he limps to the door.

 

-

 

When Stiles arrives back at the apartment it’s so late he’s half expecting Derek to be in bed, but instead he’s sitting in the armchair, book open on his knees, staring out the window at the night sky. He looks over as Stiles walks through the door.

“Hi,” Stiles says, giving him an awkward wave.

“You’re back.”

“Yup. I was at Scott’s.”

“I know, Kira texted me.” He sounds vaguely accusatory and Stiles can’t really blame him.

“Yeah, sorry about that. I would have said something, but it was kind of an--”

“Emergency?”

“Umm.”

“You ran down the fire escape.”

“I didn’t _run,_ ” Stiles says, scrunching his face. “I walked. At a normal _walking_ pace.”

“And you didn’t use the front door because?”

Stiles opens his mouth, then shuts it again, before saying, “The, uh, the fire escape was closer?”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Derek closes his eyes. “Stiles--”

“Okay, okay. Look. I’m-- I’m going through something at the moment, okay? Some--some _stuff_ happened at work today and I’m just trying to-- to get my head round it.”

“Stuff.”

“Yeah. It’s fine. I’ve got it under control.” Derek doesn’t look convinced. “I _have_ ,” Stiles insists. “I promise. And even if I didn’t, it’s my day off tomorrow. So-- I’m just gonna deal and it’ll be okay, and you don’t need to--to be concerned.” He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck and starts to head toward the stairs, because Derek’s face has that tight, disappointed look on it, and he just _can’t._

 

-

 

In the safety of his room, Stiles dicks around on the internet researching Fairy Godmother’s but either there’s nothing to be found or his google-fu is failing him. Maybe this is all a dream. He doesn’t feel like he understands Derek any better, and if Derek’s had a good day, he’s hiding it _well_. Perhaps, Mrs Henderson is just a delusional old lady or a stalker? It’s possible. Stranger things have happened. He’s comforted for about three seconds, until he remembers the moment that she snapped her fingers and produced a piece of paper from thin air.

Yeah.

He’s screwed.

 

-

 

Restless and irritable, he barely sleeps that night, he’s up even before Derek the next morning, prowling around their kitchen, bored. Unable to face the thought of food yet, he makes himself coffee, and then stands in the kitchen trying to think about what he should use his final wish for. If he were Scott, he’d probably ask for world peace or some shit like that. But Stiles is not Scott, and besides, he doesn’t really see how that wish could work _and_ retain people’s free will. People argue, they disagree, they fight. It happens. War is a terrible thing, but the idea of forcing everyone to be peaceful? How would that work out practically? He doesn’t want to wish for something noble and inadvertently plunge humanity into some dystopian nightmare, where everyone is always forced to agree on everything.

No. He’s gonna avoid the big gestures. The last wish is going to be for something simple and selfish. But what? A holiday? Money? He can earn those things with hard work. It seems like a waste to spend a wish on them.

“Stiles?” He startles at the sound of his name; looking up he sees Derek looming in the kitchen doorway, eyebrows all bunched together in surprise. “You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Stiles admits. “Coffee?”

“No.” Derek’s eyebrows are still emoting at him, this time radiating concern. Sometimes Stiles wonders if Derek’s majestic caterpillars are part of the problem. He has the eyebrows of a tragic, byronic hero, perhaps the universe is just trying to make Derek live up to them. Maybe Stiles should do him a favor and shave them off while he sleeps. “Stiles, are you sure you’re o--”

“I’m fine. Just need my breakfast,” Stiles says hurriedly, and opens the cupboard, pulling out a bowl and some Cheerios. He tips the box up and nothing comes out. “Empty,” he mutters, staring down at it betrayed.

“Uh-huh.” Derek sounds more than a little smug. He’s always complaining that Stiles puts empty stuff back rather than throwing it out. Damn him.

Eyes narrowed, Stiles shoots him a glare.

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You didn’t have to. Your eyebrows are judging me. I can feel it.”

Derek raises one of said eyebrows eloquently and says, “I’m gonna go take a shower.” Stiles is pretty sure it’s a tactical retreat.

Stomach growling, Stiles roots through the cupboards and the fridge, there isn’t much, but he finds, to his surprise, the ingredients for chocolate chip pancakes. They’re a Stilinski speciality that he hasn’t made in _ages_ , maybe not even since he before he left for college. For one moment he worries he’ll of forgotten how, but it turns out making pancakes is a little like riding a bike, you never truly forget. And because he’s feeling generous and _he_ isn’t a smug self-satisfied asshole, he makes enough for Derek too and leaves them on the coffee table. Then he slumps on the couch and turns on the TV, flicking through the channels to find cartoons.

“What’s this?” Derek says when he comes back downstairs.

“Pancakes,” Stiles says, looking up from Spongebob to find Derek eyeing the pancakes with suspicion, his hair still damp from the shower. He’s wearing that damn thumbhole sweater, and Stiles looks away quickly. “Eat up, they’re going cold.”

Nostrils flaring, Derek picks up the plate and the fork Stiles left out for him and pokes them a few times.

“They’re not poisoned.”

“I know that,” Derek says, glaring at him. He takes a seat on the opposite end of the couch from Stiles.

“So eat then, geez.”

With a long suffering sigh, Derek takes a bite.

 

-

 

Ten minutes later Stiles can hear Derek puttering around in the kitchen, rattling pots and pans and opening cupboards.

“You okay?” he calls.

“Yeah,” Derek calls, appearing in the doorway, one hand running through his hair. He won’t _quite_ meet Stiles’ eyes. “Any--uh--Any more of those pancakes?”

Suppressing a grin, Stiles blows out a put-upon sigh. “Fine,” he says, getting up. “But you’re going to wash the dishes.”

 

-

 

Later, sacked out next to Derek on the couch, belly full of pancakes, the morning idly slipping away from them, Stiles’ mind flits back to his final wish.

“What do you think about Nifflers?” he says, turning his head and squinting across at Derek.

“The weird treasure hunting creature from Harry Potter?”

“Weird? Hah! I think you mean _awesome._ Did you even see Fantastic Beasts?”

“No?”

“Nifflers are cute, Derek. Like little mole-platypuses. Platypussi? Whatever, they were fucking adorable.”

“So?” Derek’s head lolls to one side and he looks at Stiles.

“Soooo. Should I get one?”

“They aren’t _real,_ Stiles.”

“Are you sure? Because it turns out _werewolves_ are real, so how can we really know?”

“Pretty sure JK invented them.”

“Hmmmm,” he rubs at his nose. If Derek’s right and he wished for one would the wish still work? Or are wishes limited like that? Next to him, Derek’s whole body goes still, head cocked to one side. Stiles turns to look at him, attuned immediately to the tension Derek’s radiating. “What’s up?”

Standing abruptly. Derek moves over to the front door, shoulders tight, and Stiles’ gut swoops low. “Dude?” he hisses. “Shall I get my gun? Do I need wolfsbane rounds?” Scrambling off the couch he follows after Derek, pausing only to grab the baseball bat he keeps stashed behind the armchair, just in case. Standing right behind Derek, bat raised, he whispers, “What is it? What do you hear?”

Saying nothing, Derek reaches forward, swinging the front door open in one swift movement and… there’s nothing. No-one there.

“What the--” Stiles breathes, half relieved.

“Puuurroooow!”

Okay. Maybe not no-one. Peering over Derek’s shoulder, Stiles looks down to see a tiny kitten sitting forlornly on their doormat. It stares up at them with big blue eyes. From where Stiles is standing all he can make out is a tiny white face, with patches of ginger over each ear and two black forelegs with white-socked paws.

“Oh. My. God!” Stiles exclaims, dropping his bat to the floor with a clatter. “Look how cute. Where did she come from?”

“I don’t know,” Derek says warily.

“Well don’t just stand there, pick her up!”

“It’s a… girl?”

“Calico cats are almost always female.”

“How do you _know_ that?”

“I fell down a google hole once. Pick her up.”

“I don’t- Maybe you should-- cat’s don’t generally like weres--”

The kitten scampers forward and starts rubbing itself up against Derek’s ankles purring like a tiny freight train all the while. Derek goes totally still, watching it intently.

“Well I think this cat likes you,” Stiles says with a grin. “God, let me get my phone, I need to take a picture.”

He scuttles back to the couch and plucks his cell of the arm of the chair, when he looks back, Derek’s cradling the little ball of fluff awkwardly in his arms, staring down at it, expression soft and uncertain.

“Smile,” Stiles calls, and snaps a picture.

Gaze flicking up at Stiles, Derek tries to muster a frown, but he can’t seem to manage it, his eyes drifting back down to the delicate floofy ball in his arms. “Show that to anyone, and I’ll--”

“Ohhhhh. Sorry.” Stiles scrunches his face up apologetically. “Already sent it to the entire pack. Ooops.”

Derek does scowl this time, but then the kitten reaches out a paw and bats as his chin and he’s distracted again.

“I wonder who owns it,” Stiles says, moving a little closer and reaching out a tentative hand to scritch her fur.

“I could probably track her scent,” Derek says. The kitten finds a loose thread on the cuff of Derek’s damn thumbhole sweater and swats at it playfully. “Hey, you,” Derek murmurs, “Don’t do that. I _like_ this sweater.” He has this soft smile on his face though, and he makes no move to stop the kitten’s game.

There’s something about him like this, he seems strangely content, radiating hap-- oh god, fuck, shit. _This is it_ , Stiles thinks paralyzed with nerves, _kittens and pancakes,_ _this,_ this, _is Derek having a good day._ And he gets to witness it! He isn’t sure _why_ he’s so excited by the prospect, but he is. _Move slowly,_ he thinks to himself, _speak gently, don’t_ fucking _ruin it._

“We could, uh--” Stiles rubs a hand through his hair awkwardly. “Hold off for a _little_ bit,” he murmurs. “I mean, she seems happy.” _You_ seem happy.

Gazing down at her, Derek sighs. “She’s young,” he says, shaking his head. “We should try and get her back where she belongs.”

Stiles takes a step closer, so he can feel the heat radiating off Derek’s body and leans into pet the kitten again, marvelling at how soft she is. “Don’t worry, kitty. We’re gonna find where you live. Yes we are!” he coos. When he looks up, Derek’s watching him, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Stiles’ heart speeds up in his chest.

 

-

 

They track the scent through the corridors of their apartment building, the kitten cradled in Derek’s arms, nuzzling into his chest like it’s found it’s long lost home. Stiles tries not to stare, but it’s basically a black hole of adorableness that’s sucking his eyeballs towards it at every opportunity. Covertly he takes as many pictures as he can, and sends them to Kira, because he knows she’ll appreciate it. When he and Derek finally come to a stop outside a door on the ground floor, Stiles has eight new messages from Kira each one more excited than the last.

“This one,” Derek says, the kitten tucked snug in the crook of his arm, eyes shut tight. She fell asleep somewhere around the second floor.

“Okay, if you’re sure,” Stiles says and knocks.

It takes a moment before a woman with dark springy curls and bright brown eyes opens the door, face pulled down in a frown. As soon as she catches sight of the kitten in Derek’s arms her expression crumples with relief.

“Oh, thank god!” she breathes. “My son left the door open and my baby was fussing and my mechanic called about the car, and then I realized she’d managed to escape and--”

“It’s okay!” Stiles says, “Don’t worry about it.”

 

-

 

The woman’s name is Rhona and she has a cat and six kittens. Six. They’re nine weeks old and she invites Stiles and Derek in to look at them over a cup of coffee, and Stiles gets to hold them and play with them, and it’s _fucking awesome._

“I don’t suppose you’d be interested in owning one?” Rhona says at one point. “We’re trying to find good homes for them.”

“I--uh,” Derek trails off. Their unexpected visitor has been curled up asleep on him for the best part of an hour. It’s cute as shit and Stiles wants to see that _every day_ for the rest of _time._

“Is she available?” He says pointing at the sleepy kitty in Derek’s arms.

“Sure,” Rhona says. “She’ll need to stay with her mother for a bit longer, but give it a couple of weeks and you can take her.”

“I--”

“Don’t even, Der,” Stiles says, cutting him off before he can build up a head of steam and talk them out of it. “You know you want her.”

“Fine,” Derek says, with a small smile. “Okay.”

“Does she have a name?”

“We’ve been calling her Mittens. Well, Mitzy, for short. But you can call her whatever you want.”

“Whatever we want?” Stiles says with a gleeful grin. “I vote Binx.”

“Stiles.”

“You’re right, that’s a boy’s name. What about Miss Kitty Fantastico? Katy Purry? Pawla Abdul? Clawdia Schiffer?”

“Mittens is fine,” Derek says firmly and Stiles shakes his head with a sigh. Reaching forward he picks up his mug and gulps down the last of the coffee.

Rhona grins at them. “I’m so pleased to think she’ll be going to such a lovely couple.”

Stiles chokes, spraying coffee everywhere and when he finally manages to stop coughing he glances up to see Derek’s ears are bright red.

Neither of them bother to correct her.

 

-

 

Stiles kind of thinks they should talk about what just happened, that’s what emotionally mature adults would do, right? They’d acknowledge the fact that they’ve a) been mistaken for a couple and b) decided to get a cat together. They’d probably discuss what that means, maybe laugh about it, maybe confess long repressed feelings or something like that. Of course he isn’t an emotionally mature adult, and neither is Derek, so that plan isn’t going to fly. No. Instead, they’re going to walk back to their apartment together, Derek saying nothing and Stiles filling the awkward silence by nervously recounting the entire plot of Sharknado, a movie he has only seen once, three years ago, whilst very drunk.

When they finally get into the apartment, Derek turns to face him, expression all pinched and serious. “Stiles--” he says, and then his phone starts to ring. He fishes it out of his pocket and stares down at it. “It’s Cora,” he says blankly. “She hardly ever calls.” It’s true, the text regularly and Skype occasionally, but a phone call is unusual.

“You take it,” Stiles says, stomach growling. “I’m gonna go see if there’s anything for lunch.”

The cupboards are bare. The fridge is empty too, which is weird, because he swears they at least had _something,_ but the bread is moldy and the milk, which was fine this morning, is now sour. It looks like he’s gonna have to make a trip to the grocery store.

When he walks back into the living room, Derek’s standing there, phone still in his hand, looking frustrated.

“You okay?” Stiles asks, pausing as he reaches for his keys.

“We got cut off,” he says “And I tried to call her back but it went straight to voicemail.”

“Well did she sound okay?”

He shrugs. “Yeah? I mean, I think so?” He thumbs the screen and puts the phone to his ear again. After a few moments he sighs and cuts the call. “No answer.”

“I’m sure she’s fine.” Cora’s part of a massive and stable pack in Argentina. She has a boyfriend, and a job and there hasn’t been a hint of any drama from her in _years._

Derek shrugs, slipping his phone back into his pocket, then his eyes flick to Stiles and he frowns slightly. “Are you going out?”

“Grocery shopping. Seriously. The fridge is empty, the cupboards are bare and the bread is _green_.”

“I’ll come too,” Derek says, grabbing his jacket. “I don’t trust you to buy groceries.”

“One time I get distracted and come back from the store with three boxes of Lucky Charms and a tub of Marshmallow Fluff and you never let me forget it.”

“You went out for cheese, Stiles. We were making grilled cheese sandwiches and you didn’t buy any _cheese_.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, but concedes the point, all he says in response is, “We’re taking my car.”

Unbelievably the grocery store is closed, there’s a sign in the window saying that they’ll be back later, but that’s no help _now._ Stiles’ stomach is complaining, the pancakes feel like they were hours ago. “We could try the place on Maple,” Stiles suggests. It smells kind of funny and the last time they bought fruit there it was moldy within a _day,_ but he’s hungry now, and compromises have to be made.

“Yeah, okay,” Derek says, even though he hates that place even more than Stiles.

They drive round there, but there’s no parking outside the store so Stiles finds a space on a side street and parks up. Opening the door to the Jeep he climbs out and turns to look at Derek who is still sitting in the passenger seat. “Are you coming?” Derek doesn’t respond, he’s looking out across the street and Stiles follows his gaze.

He’s looking at a tiny hole-in-the wall diner that Stiles _must_ have passed before but has never once been in. He glances back at Derek, who’s still staring at it wistfully.

“Der? You wanna go in there?” he asks, and Derek shrugs, but he can’t seem to take his eyes off the place. “Okay,” Stiles says, taking that as a ‘yes’. “Come on, let’s go.”

 

-

 

“Oh my god,” Stiles breathes later, around the biggest, juiciest, greasiest most delicious burger it has ever been his pleasure to eat. “I think my mouth just orgasmed. Literally. I have evolved to the next level. Somebody call Charles Xavier. I’m gonna be an X-man.”

Derek pauses, uneaten burger halfway to his mouth. “And mouthgasms are helpful to them how exactly?”

Ignoring him, Stiles takes another bite with relish, then moans loudly, eyes fluttering shut. When he opens them again, Derek’s staring at him, mouth ajar, the tips of his ears pink. “What?” Stiles intends to say through a mouthful of burger. But it comes out more like “Mmmph?”

Flushing, Derek looks away. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, but he’s smiling.

“So, did you know this place already?” Stiles asks, ready to berate Derek for not telling him about it sooner.

Ducking his head, Derek chews his food, swallows and then takes a sip of his drink before finally meeting Stiles’ gaze. “I’d forgotten this place existed. My parents used to bring us here when I was little. Best burgers in town.” He smiles, soft and private, and the rant dies in Stiles’ throat.

Taking a sip of his shake, he clears his throat and says, “Sounds fun.”

“It was.” Derek opens his mouth, like he might be about to say more, and Stiles waits with baited breath, because he can count on one hand the number of times Derek’s revealed _anything_ about his family. Instead of continuing though, Derek turns his head to look around the diner. “They used to have this weird art on the wall. Dogs riding motorbikes.”

There isn’t much on the walls now except peeling paint. The tables are rickety, red leatherette chairs that are split at the seams, but the food is good and the company is even better. Anyway, the fact is, he gets it. They don’t have to have some big heart to heart. God knows Stiles doesn’t always want to talk about his Mom. Sometimes he just wants to feel the moment. The fact that Derek was willing to come in here and share this place with him-- it’s enough. Stretching out his leg, Stiles presses his foot up against Derek’s and they finish the meal in relative silence.

Driving back through town, they return to their preferred grocery store, which is open again. They spend a half hour wandering the aisles and bickering happily over which washing powder to buy, what flavor pop-tarts are best (the answer is clearly cinnamon, Derek can take his gross raspberry ones and jump in a lake), and whether or not to buy Easy Cheese, which Derek is trying to ban from the apartment because Stiles is gross and likes to eat it straight from the can.

 

They’ve just walked into their kitchen, arms full of groceries, when Derek’s phone starts to ring again. Stiles signals for him to dump the bags he’s carrying on the counter, and then he disappears off into the living room to answer it, while Stiles puts stuff away.

He can’t hear what Derek’s saying on the phone, but when he finally finishes up and wanders back through to the living room, Derek’s standing in the middle of the room, staring down at his phone, pale and kind of glassy eyed.

Stiles stomach sinks like a stone. “Der,” he says, rushing forward. “Are you okay? Is it Cora?” He reaches out his hand to grab Derek by the arm, but then thinks better of it, and lets it drop to his side, fist clenched.

“I--Uh--” Derek says, clearing his throat, voice thick with emotion. Oh god. _Please don’t let anything be wrong with Cora,_ Stiles thinks to himself, _Please, please, do not let the universe be that cruel._ Then Derek croaks out, “I’m going to be an uncle.”

Stiles blinks at him, his mouth drops open as he tries to take it in. “Wha--”

“I’m going to be an uncle,” Derek repeats, voice a little stronger this time. “Cora’s pregnant and I’m going to be an uncle.”

“Oh my _god._ ” Stiles launches himself at Derek, wrapping his arms around him and hugging him tight as he can. “Dude. Der--I’m-- I’m so happy for you. For her. For everything.”

Derek stands there for a moment, while Stiles’ clings to him like a limpet, before finally bringing his arms up to settle uncertainly around Stiles’ waist and pull him in tight. They both stand there, clutching each other tight and totally not crying. Definitely no tears. Nothing to see here. Move along.

They hug well past the boundary of what might be considered normal or acceptable, but neither seems to want to move. This news is huge. More than either of them can take in. Once it settles in Stiles brain, though, he starts to become aware of how good it is to be this close for once. Notices little things, the smell of Derek’s shampoo, the soft rasp of his stubble, the warmth bleeding off him, the way his shoulders hitch as he takes a breath. _God,_ Stiles spends so long telling himself they don’t get on that sometimes he forgets how it can be between them.

Coming back to Beacon Hills a year and a half ago and _seeing_ Derek again, _living_ with him-- it’s been difficult for lots of reasons. But while there _are_ differences between them, _real_ ones, the kind that make it hard for them to get along sometimes, there are also other things. The way their eyes meet, just for a second, whenever Scott is getting a little _too_ True Alpha-ry. The way Stiles’ heart skips in the morning when he sees Derek pad through the kitchen in plaid pajama pants, hair sleep-soft. The afternoons spent watching baseball on TV. The way he’s so aware of Derek when he’s in a room. The way Stiles is usually so, so careful not touch him, not to hug, or fist bump, or even brush his fingers if he’s handing him his coffee.

He never lets himself think about why that is, but he knows the answer is there, simmering just beneath the surface, getting harder and harder to ignore every day.

The thing is, it’s so much safer for him to fall back on their old dynamic, bicker, argue, pick a fight. That dance is familiar, he knows all the steps and he won’t embarrass himself. Lately, though, it feels like the rhythm is stale, repetitive, and he’s dimly aware that they need to change the tune, but he’s scared that if he does, Derek won’t like the song, and then he’ll have no-one to dance with at all.

He’s scared. Scared of fucking up. Scared of being alone. Scared of never being alone again. Scared that he’ll never understand Derek. Scared that Derek will find a way to be happy and it won’t include him.

Standing here, finally holding each other, he allows himself to think about what he really wants, deep in that most secret part of himself. The part he hardly ever allows himself to acknowledge, because it’s just too unlikely, too painful, too _much_.

Derek pulls back a little, eyes bright with happiness and says, “This day--” Like he’s in awe, like he can’t fucking believe it.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, swallowing thickly. “Pretty good, huh?” And when he thinks about it, other than Cora’s news, what have they done, except make breakfast together and hang out and bicker? Okay, they adopted a cat, but still, it doesn’t seem like much.

Except even as he says that, he knows it isn’t true. For the longest time now he’s been holding back, keeping himself in check, holding Derek at arms length… and today, he hasn’t. Today he’s been engaged and invested emotionally in a way never usually allows himself to be.

 _I wish,_ he thinks to himself, _I wish we were more than just friends._ There’s a pause, and then Derek leans in to kiss him. It’s nothing more than a brief brush of lips, but Stiles is horrified with himself. He leaps back like a scalded cat, putting as much distance between himself and Derek as possible.

“Sorry, sorry, shit, sorry,” he mutters, scrubbing his hands through his hair.

“No!” Derek says, stricken. “Don’t apologize. I should never have--”

“But I want to! I swear. I do!” Stiles blurts. “I just need to be sure it’s real.”

“What do you mean?” Derek’s frowning at him now, and, oh god, he has to _explain_. Suddenly he really wishes he’d told Derek about all this sooner.

“Remember I said I had some stuff going on at work--”

“Yes,” Derek says, folding his arms defensively.

“Well. Hah. So. Um.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “It turns out I have a Fairy Godmother.” He makes jazz hands. “Tada!”

“What.”

“I have a Fairy Godmother.”

“Stiles, if you’re not interested in me you can just say, you don’t have to--”

“I’m not lying! I swear,” he flails. “Listen to my heartbeat. I have a Fairy Godmother. See?”

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose. “But--”

“I’m gonna take you to meet her,” Stiles says decisively. “Come on,” he beckons Derek over. “Come with me. I’ll drive us there.”

“Stiles--”

“I’m serious. Come with me. I want you, dude. I want to make out with you all night, and adopt a million kittens together, but first I need to know, _really_ know that it’s what you want too.” He juts out his chin and Derek sighs.

“Fine,” he says, arms dropping to his sides.

 

-

 

The silence in the car is _deafening._ “So, uh,” Stiles says after the longest ten minutes of his _life._ “So it turns out that Fairy Godmother’s grant wishes. Three of them. And I--” he swallows. “I may have _accidentally_ involved you in my wishes.” Derek stares at him, saying nothing. “See, when I made my first wish I didn’t even know that wishing was a thing that I could do. So I can’t really be blamed.”

“Oh god,” Derek says, “What did you wish for?”

“That I, uh,” he’s blushing again, face burning crimson. “That I would understand you better?” He can’t even glance at Derek now, keeps his eyes fixed on the road ahead with steely determination. “I know, it sounds weird, but it just felt like there was some part of you I couldn’t reach, you know? Like, the you that the pack saw, that everyone else saw, wasn’t the you that I saw. Like I was missing something. Like,” he pauses, grasping for the right words. “Like you were sad when I was around.” It isn’t eloquent, but it’s the truth.

“And your other wishes?” Derek’s tone is unreadable. Stiles had no idea what he’s thinking at all.

“That you would have a good day?” his voice sounds small to his own ears. When Derek still doesn’t speak, he barrels on. “You have to really mean them, for them to work, y’know? Like I couldn’t have just wished for just anything. It has to be an actual thing my heart desires. And cards on the table, I made both those wishes without intending to, but it turns out I meant them.”

They’re on Mrs. Henderson’s street now, her house is coming up on the left. Stiles pulls in just before they reach it, trying not to break out in a cold sweat. “Ready?” he asks, wiping his hands on his jeans.

“What about your third wish?” Derek asks, unmoving.

“That’s why we’re here. I just need to check. I just need to be sure, before anything happens between us, I need to know…”

He can’t bring himself to say what he thought just before Derek kissed him. Turning away, he opens the door and climbs out of the jeep, with a brief sigh Derek follows him.

Together they trudge up her front path. Her front yard is full of plants, lavender and rosemary, sweet peas and rosebushes, the scent is heady in the late afternoon air. Climbing the steps, Stiles reaches takes a deep breath, reaches out a hand and knocks on her door.

It takes a moment, but soon they can hear her stomping towards them, heavy-footed on the hard floor. The door creaks open and she peers up at them both, before her face splits into a beatific smile.

“Mieczysław! Derek! So lovely to see you.”

Stiles winces at the use of his real name, sure Derek’s about to comment, but he’s gaping at Mrs. Henderson instead. “Sophia?” he says.

“Wait! Hold on a gosh darn minute.” Stiles splutters, looking between them. “You two _know_ each other?”

“Yes dear, of course. Derek plays Go Fish with me at the Senior Center every Tuesday.”

“I always thought your guesses were eerily accurate,” Derek says with a hint of accusation in his voice. “Are you _really_ Stiles’ fairy godmother?”

“I am indeed,” she twinkles brightly. “Why don’t you come in.”

They follow her through to her living room, which is just as Stiles remembers it, from the photo of Bob Barker to the overwhelming scent of lavender and cloves. Next to him, Derek sneezes.

“Do you gentlemen want a drink?” she asks.

“No, thank-you,” they say in unison. Then Stiles carries on, “I need to ask you a question.”

“A question? Of course. Take a seat, take a seat.” She waves in the general direction of the couch. “What can I do for you dear?” she says, lowering herself carefully into the high backed arm chair. They’re both staring at him now, and he’s not even wearing his uniform, but he reaches out to adjust the collar just as if he were, swallowing nervously.

“How many wishes have I made?”

“Don’t you know?” She watches him, bright eyed and curious.

“I think I’ve made two. But I thought one a little while ago and--”

“I see,” she steeples her fingers in front of her. “Thoughts don’t count, dear. You actually have to _say_ what you’re wishing for.”

“Okay, thank _god_.” Stiles says, sagging in relief.

“Also,” she says, eyeing him astutely, “I might remind you that it isn’t possible to _make_ someone fall in love with you.”

“Right!” Stiles says, blushing scarlet. “Of course.”

“Is that what you wished for?” Derek asks, staring at him.

Stiles shrugs. “I thought it. I didn’t say it. And I phrased it more like-- wanting to be more than just friends.”

“And then--”

“And then you kissed me and I freaked out because I thought that I might have made you do it because I wished it.” Derek shakes his head, grinning ruefully down at his hands. “What?” Stiles snaps. “Consent is really important to me, okay?”

Derek opens his mouth to respond, but Mrs Henderson cuts in, “Ohhh, I don’t think you need to worry about that, Dear. He talks about you all the time at the Senior Centre.” Now it’s Derek’s turn to blush furiously. “Me and the others have a pool running.”

“Oh. My. God.” Stiles breathes, as he and Derek stare at her in horror.

She smacks her hands together gleefully. “I am going to take those bitches to the fucking _cleaners_.”

“But--cheating!?” Derek hisses, outraged.

“No! No. He could have wished for anything. Anything at all. It’s not _my_ fault how it worked out. I didn't do anything wrong! You agree, don’t you, Deputy?” She bats her eyelashes at Stiles. This woman is the _devil._

“So the raccoon? Calling me to get your cat out of the tree? You didn't really need my help at all,  did you?"

"Don't be mad!"

"I'm an officer of the law! You had me crawling around under your deck for two hours! I've been scratched and bitten! I hurt my ankle falling out of that tree!" He jabs a finger in the vague direction of her backyard. "And you were just playing with me? Wasting my time?"

"Wasting your time? Really? I don't think _I'm_ the one that's been wasting  _time._ " She arches an eyebrow and stares pointedly between them. 

Stiles ducks his head, half embarrassed. "You make a good point. I'll let it slide."

“That’s what I thought.” She sniffs, and then says, “So, have you given any thought to what you want that third wish to be?”

Stiles gnaws thoughtfully against his lip, and looks across at Derek, who grins. Reaching out he takes Stiles’ hand and squeezes it tight. “You already know what you want,” he says.

 

-

 

Mr Snuffleupagus (or Snuffy, for short) is, as far as they know, the only Niffler in existence. Fully domesticated and house trained (Stiles had been very specific), he enjoys snuggling on the couch, hunting out ‘treasure’ that they hide for him, and long walks in the preserve. At night he curls into a tight ball at the foot of their bed and snores loudly. When Mitzy finally comes to live with them, they get on famously.

Sometimes, when they’re out in the preserve with him, they’ll meet other people, out hiking or walking their dogs, and they’ll often stop and say “Oh, what an unusual--uh-- dog?” And Stiles laughs and tells them he’s a Madagascan Mole Hound or a Tasmanian Long-Nosed Terrier. Very RARE, you understand. And those people smile and nod and move quickly on.

Then of course one time there’s a jewellry theft and they don’t know where the thief has stashed the jewels and Stiles pipes up, “My dog will find them!” And Snuffy does, and thus begins his long career as the Beacon Hills Sheriff Departments premier sniffer ‘dog’. He’s useless at finding drugs, but if someone has lost jewellery or a wallet or keys, he is A+.  
  
And the four of them live happily together, first in the apartment and then, later, in a house near the preserve. It has a big backyard with apple trees and flowerbeds, where Snuffy can dig to his heart’s content, and Mitzy can chase butterflies. Derek and Stiles spend every day together, bickering happily over Easy Cheese and Pop Tarts and fucking like bunnies whenever they get the chance. Stiles knows in his wildest dreams he could never have wished for anything better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHAHAHAHA! And now to return to writing the long fic that I've been painstakingly trying to finish since FUCKING FEBRUARY. 
> 
> This was a cool distraction though, and I hope you liked it. Thank-you to everyone who leaves kudos and comments, I love you guys, you are the best.
> 
> I'm also on [tumblr](http://yodas-yo-yo.tumblr.com/) flailing about Sterek. COME FLAIL WITH ME. IT'll BE AWESOME.
> 
> Also special shoutout to the lovely Artemis69, who introduced me to the prompt generator which came up with the three wishes idea. I mean it also came up with Victorian/Regency Tentacle Porn. So lets just all take a moment's silence and reflect on what this fic could have been.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed. Thanks in advance if you leave kudos/comments, you guys are LITERALLY the best!


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